Makeup
by Forestwater
Summary: Some people think that makeup is just another way to lie, a false face created to trick men and disguise one's true visage. That might be so, darling, but there are plenty of other ways to lie. And Captain Jack Sparrow knows them all.
1. A Chance Meeting

A/N: I have no idea if this story is any good; I wrote it four years ago, let it to moulder on my computer for a while, then picked it back up and dusted it off. At this point I've read it so many times that I cannot judge its quality anymore. Hopefully people enjoy it anyway!

The cover: Created by me, using the _Pirates_ logo, some font from a website called cooltext, and a doll creator that can be found here (just remove the asterisks): htt*p:/*/azaleasdolls.*com/portraits.h*tml

* * *

Catherine hated makeup. She hated its sticky pastes, the stiff coat it left on her face, the way she couldn't eat, stand out in the rain, or even smile too brightly without it being ruined. She hated the way that she looked like a stranger in it.

So why would she wear it? Why would she coat her face with the gloopy, gloppy mask each and every night? How could she stare in the mirror at that stranger and pretend it was her? _Why, _she asked herself, brushing rouge onto her cheeks, _am I doing this?_

She could blame it on her sister. Felicia was two years younger than her and about ten years more mature. A few weeks ago she'd slapped a tin into her hands and said, "This will make you look more comely. Less . . . well, ugly." Most people loved Felicia's inability to use tact. They thought it was sweet. Adults and boys flocked to Felicia to coo over her bluntness, unable to get enough of it. Catherine wanted to strangle her sister for it — and, at the same time, she envied it.

She was blunt, in her own way. She'd never call anyone ugly, of course, but she'd tell someone if their ideas were stupid. This happened a lot, as Catherine spent most of her time reading and learning, and knew a little about almost everything. However, no one thought it was cute. They thought it was rude. Perhaps this was because Felicia's cruel comments were accompanied by batting her long eyelashes and pouting her perfect little lips, whereas Catherine's opinions were said with a scowl and — more often than not — a blow to the head. A _gentle _one, she always insisted.

The world was not a fair place. This fact was only to be confirmed as Felicia came bounding into their shared room, snatching the pink lip color out of Catherine's hands and settling down on her bed.

"No, Catherine," she said, scolding her older sister like she was a naughty pet. "You are too dark for this." She dug through Catherine's makeup collection and pulled out a jar of deep red. "Do try this," she said, dabbing the pink color on her own lips. "It'll look far better." Felicia was dressed up in a light pink dress and light makeup, just enough to give her blonde hair a golden shine and her pale skin a rosy tint. With her small frame, light coloring, and large blue eyes, she looked like a perfect porcelain doll, beautiful and fragile. Catherine scowled at her own face, which was square and dark, bedecked with almost-black eyes and thick eyebrows, framed by a mane of curly red hair. Tall and broad, she would never be confused with her lovely sister. "Are you just about ready?" Felicia asked, smoothing her dress. They were supposed to go out that evening. Nice ladies didn't do this, of course, but on Kimbal, there was no such thing as nice ladies, not really; it was too close to Tortuga for respectability. And if there were, the Blackwells were not rich enough to be nice.

"Almost," Catherine said. "You go downstairs. I shall be down in a moment."

Her sister nodded, climbing to her feet and looking into the mirror. Seeing perfection, she smiled (not enough to crack her makeup, of course) and left.

Catherine leaned forward, inspecting her face. Felicia had been right — she _did_ look better with the red. Slowly, as though hypnotized, she raised her left hand, watching the girl in the mirror do the same. She pressed her hand against the glass, spreading her fingers out as wide as she could. She tugged a strand of her hair free from its bun, watching a lock of the mirror-girl's red hair fall in front of her face.

"You are me," she whispered. But that wasn't true. The mirror-girl didn't look anything like Catherine — she looked _better_. And it seemed Felicia was right; the true reason she wore makeup was because it made her look less ugly. In the mirror, her nose didn't look so large, or her eyes so small. And the red color made her mouth look less wide. Somehow her face didn't even seem as square, either. Catherine pulled another strand of hair out of her bun. With the hair framing her face, it looked softer, rounder. Still nothing like Felicia's — no one could achieve that kind of magnificence — but not so bad. "You are me," she repeated, "only better."

With that, she stood, gathering her skirts around her and trying to step into her skin. _Imagine you are lovely, _she thought. _Pretend, for just one evening, that the girl in mirror is you._

Nonetheless, she felt like an impostor as she walked out of her room, took her sister's arm, and stepped out onto the street.

* * *

Catherine tilted forward onto the bar, trying to signal to the serving girl that she'd like another drink. The girl didn't seem to notice, which was understandable, as she was trying to fend off a drunken man at least twice her age and three times her size. He was leaning heavily on her and trying to kiss her neck while simultaneously rubbing her butt. It embarrassed Catherine to watch, and she dropped her eyes to the table, thanking the Lord that her father was farmer and not a barkeep.

The serving girl managed to extricate herself from her assailant and stumbled over to where Catherine was sitting. "Another ale, miss?" she asked, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Yes," she replied. "But, please, take your time," she added as the girl turned with a start to see that the man she'd escaped before was coming up behind her. The girl shot her a grateful smile before disappearing into the crowd.

There were a lot of people there, she noted. Well, it would have been hard to miss that fact, as everyone was packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the small tavern. To her left was a group of boys she'd known since childhood. None of them seemed to notice her presence, though, despite the fact that they were practically on top of her. As a young man's elbow jabbed her in the ribs, she questioned why so many people were there. It wasn't like Kimbal was a large town — it was a small port quite a ways from Tortuga (which was where most people would go for a good time).

She wondered vaguely if she'd ever get her drink, then waved the thought away and swiveled around in her seat so that she was facing the rest of the room instead of the bar. She might as well watch the people around her while she waited; Felicia certainly wasn't paying her much attention. As soon as they'd arrived, she'd found a group of friends and settled down with them, caring long enough about her sister to make sure that she got a seat next to them before ignoring her. In a table directly in front of her, there was a girl she recognized. She was one of Felicia's friends, and was having a spectacular argument with the barkeep's son. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but she enjoyed watching their arms flail wildly and their faces turn red.

Catherine glanced around again in search of the serving girl and almost lost her balance. _Maybe it's a good thing she is not here, _she thought, holding onto the bar stool for support. _I've already had four drinks. Maybe that's enough. _She didn't want to spend the rest of her evening vomiting, after all, and while Felicia would consider a night wasted if she didn't drink at least six, Catherine had always been a bit of a lightweight — despite her larger weight, an irony that hadn't been lost on either sister.

Suddenly she realized why the bar was much more crowded. There were several raggedy-looking men and women — mostly men — of all ages and races. They were also five times louder and bawdier than everyone else, making the small room feel fuller than it was. As she watched a group of such people, she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it before. Everyone in her town was clean-cut and . . . well, if not polite, at least _civilized_, and the number of girls was about equal to the number of boys. It was unsettling to see so many dirty strangers there. Her eyes darted from person to person, seeing as many unfamiliar faces as familiar.

"Looking for someone, love?"

She jerked, her shoulders hunching up around her ears, and turned. The group of boys who'd been sitting next to her were gone, and in the seat next to her was one of the raggedy-est and dirtiest of the newcomers. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and all she could see was his dark hair — which had been pulled into many thick braids — and his beard, which was styled in much the same way. His clothes were grimy and unusual by their town's standards — she was used to crisp, high-collared shirts and clean pants when men went out. He had one of his hands resting on the bar, and she counted at least one ring on each finger.

She shifted in her seat, so that she was a little farther away from this off-putting and somewhat malodorous man. "Polite people do not wear hats inside," she said, blurting out the first thing that popped into her head. "It's not proper."

A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth, and he swiped his hat off of his head, setting it down gingerly on the bar. "Apologies," he said. "Don't mean to be improper." His tone was sincere, but his smile was mocking. Catherine stiffened — clearly this was one of the "dangerous" men her father had warned her and Felicia away from.

Sensing her tension, his smile grew, softening and becoming friendlier. "So," he asked casually, leaning back in his chair, "_are_ you looking for someone?"

"I . . . no, I'm not." She turned back toward the rest of the room, crossing her legs. The man mimicked her position, resting his chin on his fist and staring intently into the throng.

"What are we looking at, then?"

"People."

"Ah." He nodded in exaggerated understanding. "Sounds highly enjoyable."

"Well . . . no, not usually. But there are a lot of interesting men here tonight." She didn't really wish to talk to him, but she couldn't think of a way to get rid of him. She wasn't the confrontational type (well, except for when she hit people, but that was only with her sister, and only when she was being _really _stupid), and the hints she'd been dropping were having no effect.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, yes. Terribly sorry, that would be my fault. I needed a place for my crew to rest." Surveying them with pride, he added, "They _are_ a bit odd, aren't they?"

"Somewhat." It wasn't a Christian thing to say, but at least it was honest. She folded her arms over her chest, staring resolutely at the crew. Counting quickly, she realized that there were only ten or so extra people. It had simply seemed like more because they were so loud and unruly.

"'Tis a valuable trait if you're to sail under the pirate flag."

Catherine could think of several other valuable traits, but felt it wouldn't be polite to say them. "Oh. Good, then." Nodding_, _she returned her gaze to the crew.

The man waited a moment before saying, "Are you enjoying your pastime?"

"I suppose, a bit."

"Well, if you're not enjoying it _a lot, _why don't you watch more interesting people?"

She pursed her lips, feeling her makeup crack. "Like who?"

He turned so that his entire body was facing her, cradling his head in one hand and giving her a sardonic smile. "Like me."

She hesitated, and then turned so that she was facing him. She blamed the alcohol for that, and for the conversation that followed. "So, what is it?"

He blinked, clearly taken aback. "What is what?"

"Why, out of all the girls in this tavern, are you talking to me? Am I just that _lovely?"_ The last part had a bite to it that she hadn't intended — it made her words bitter instead of merely sarcastic.

"Ah, that's easy," he said, then paused dramatically. "It's unusual to see a woman sitting alone, especially in an inn filled with dangerous _pirates_." He beamed, showing off a golden tooth, obviously hoping she'd be impressed or terrified by this information.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she fought to keep her face blank. He was a pirate? She knew what they were like, having read plenty of books about them. They were crude, and violent, and nothing but trouble. The serving girl arrived, setting a mug of ale down in front of both of them. Catherine took a long drink as he watched, his dark eyes shining with amusement. She drew herself up and said, "I am not alone. My sister . . ."

She turned as she was speaking, searching for honey hair and rose-petal cheeks in the crowd of swarthy complexions, and trailed off. Her sister wasn't there. In fact, Felicia wasn't even in the tavern anymore. Where had she gone?

The man's smirk had widened. "Problem, darling?"

She clenched her jaw. "My sister _was _here," she said coolly. "And I'm certain she shall be back momentarily."

"Of course," he agreed smoothly.

"And besides, if she were here, I would not be the one you chose to talk to." Why had she said that? Bitterness was an ugly habit, her mother had always said, and there was already plenty of ugliness in this tavern.

He raised one eyebrow, a feat that made his face look much younger. "Oh?"

"Yes," she continued, still not sure why she was talking. "Felicia Blackwell: petite, blonde and perfect. Trust me, she's the kind of maiden who inspires ballads." Catherine tapped the side of her nose and snickered, beginning to enjoy herself despite the company and topic of conversation. "Yet between you and me, though she might be pretty enough to inspire a . . . you know, the front of a ship where nude harlots go" — the pirate looked slightly affronted and muttered "a _figurehead_" — "she lacks the wits of one of those wooden beauties." The next morning she'd be appalled that these vulgar, resentful words had escaped her lips, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Ah." He nodded, then slapped his hat on his head and climbed to his feet without another word. Swaying slightly, he shoved his way through the bodies along the bar, headed in the direction of the door.

Catherine, confused and slightly disappointed, called out, "Where are you going?"

"To find your sister!" This was flung over his shoulder, he not even turning around as he continued on his tipsy way.

Her mouth dropped open, knowing that her face paint had cracked yet again. "Of all the — !" She couldn't say she was surprised, since this was simply a more exaggerated version of what usually happened whenever a man met both her and Felicia, but it was still insulting to be abandoned mid-conversation. And her sister wasn't even in the _building_! Stinging from the rejection, she accepted another drink from the barmaid, settling herself in for an evening of moping.

"You know what your problem is?" Catherine turned around, wide-eyed, to see the man sliding back into his seat as though he'd never left. He was chuckling to himself as he regarded her amazement. "You lack a sense of humor." When she continued to stare at him, he added, "You really thought I'd leave, didn't you? Are the others here so serious-like, or are they more like bonny Felicia Blackwell?"

Somewhat mollified, but still irritated about being laughed at, she circled the lip of her glass with one finger and said, "Most lack the intelligence to be serious about anything." Shooting him a sideways glance, she continued, "But evidently you would know nothing of such foolishness."

The man laughed, leaning back on his chair. "Of course not," he said cockily. "I am, after all, Captain Jack Sparrow." He grinned at her, his expression saying, "Well, you must have heard of _me._"

For a long while she simply stared at him. Then she took a huge gulp of her drink, and, setting it down, slowly clapped once, twice, three times. "Congratulations," she said dryly, feeling the warm buzz of alcohol increase with each sip. "Captain. With a boat and crew and everything?"

His face fell slightly. "Well, I have a crew," he said. "I'm still looking for that boat — ship."

She lifted her tankard and took another impressive slug. Swallowing thickly, she wiped her mouth and grimaced. "Foul stuff, isn't it?" she muttered, noticing that her words weren't as clear as she would have preferred. Furthermore, she was beginning to feel ill. _Nothing another drink won't fix, _she thought, reaching for the mug again. _That is what Felicia always says, anyway. Carry on and it shall taste smooth and pleasant again._

Jack's hand closed around her wrist. "You're going to make yourself sick, love," he said. "Drink slowly. It tastes better, and you feel less like you're going to vomit." He demonstrated, drinking with exaggerated slowness and raising his eyebrows at her. "See? Much better. You cannot drink like a pirate unless you've earned your sea liver, lass."

"Right," she said. Surprising, how fast the nausea had come upon her, unless it was this captain's smell — musky and salty with the ocean and sweat, it was making her feel heady. "T'would be a perfect end to a perfect evening if I became unwell."

"Now, Miss" — he faltered, and she supplied her name — "It hasn't been all bad, has it?"

She gently shoved at his shoulder, trying to get away from his smell and the heat of his body, the latter of which seemed almost overpowering. "I cannot know. Not in this condition." Her head was reeling, and she reached for the mug.

Jack grabbed her wrist again. "I'd wait a good long time before drinking again if I were you," he warned.

"Oh, I s'pose." How many had she had, anyway? Six? Seven? It was Felicia's idea of a successful night, anyway. Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she swayed a little in her seat. His hand was still on hers, and he didn't seem inclined to move it. "Jack," she began, "why're you here?"

He smiled — it was a nice smile, even with the gold teeth: a blend of sincere and mischievous. "Here, in Kimbal, or here, talking to you?"

She shrugged, resting her free elbow on the bar and dropping her head into it, still staring up at the pirate. "Both."

He took a deep breath, his eyes unfocusing for a second — Catherine thought maybe she wasn't the only one who was drunk, though his sea liver was far more sturdy than hers. "I am in Kimbal because it's a long way to Tortuga in rowboats," he said. "We had to rest sometime, didn't we?" When she nodded, he continued. "And I'm here, talking to you, because you're much better company than my crew at the moment." He looked over her shoulder at his crew, which had broken into singing a broken and slurring rendition of "A Pirate's Life For Me," but she didn't trust herself to turn around without falling over. When she heard a crash and the harried cry of the barmaid, she suspected that she could take Jack's word.

His hand was warm on hers, and his thumb began rubbing small circles on her wrist. They both looked down at their hands for a moment before meeting each other's eyes. She knew she was supposed to be scandalized by this — what if someone saw her? — but found the task of moving her hand away a Herculean effort she couldn't handle. Besides, it was nice. Men weren't exactly arranging duels for the honor of holding her hand, after all, and she _was_ a woman, was she not?

Still, propriety was a difficult habit to shake, even under the influence of the devil's brew, and Catherine cast her mind around for something to say. "Why're you goin' to Tortuga?" she asked, hoping her words had come out in some coherent order.

"You can get anything there," he said. She waited for him to elaborate — the man seemed to love talking, after all, especially about himself — but he didn't. He just sat there, making those circles on her wrist.

"What time is it?" she finally mumbled, letting her eyes fall closed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, battered pocket watch. He flipped it open. "Almost midnight."

"Oh," she said. Then her eyes snapped open as she took in what he'd said. _"Oh!"_ She slid off her bar stool and tried to stand, but her right leg wasn't cooperating and she went down, landing hard on her hip on the dirty tavern floor with an oath that was _far _from appropriate, even for someone as unladylike as herself.

Jack knelt down and pulled her arm over his shoulder, hauling her to her feet. They both froze, swaying for a moment, before they were sure they weren't going to fall over again. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going to be late!"

His eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"For . . . returning home! I'll be in trouble!" Her thoughts were scrambled, her mind fuzzy. "Blast it all to hell! Bloody, stupid Felicia — she should have fetched me! Would I not do . . . do the same for her? _Damn_ it!"

He watched this semi-coherent rant with a small smile, both shocked and impressed by the ferocity of this awkward red-haired wench. "All right, then," he said, putting his hat back on with the hand that wasn't holding her up. "Let's get you home."

* * *

A/N: The other chapters are shorter, I promise! There was just no good way to cut this one in half.

Apologies for the fact that this is so OC-centered; I wrote it in response to so many Sue-marries-Jack fanfics, so I tried to mimic that form with a little more realism, and I really hope it works.


	2. Pirate Etiquette

Catherine didn't know why she let Jack Sparrow walk her home. Maybe it was because she had never been this drunk, and the remaining logical part of her brain had decided that _he_, drunk, would do a much better job of getting her home than _she_, drunk.

Or maybe she was not yet ready to say goodbye to this strange, charming man.

She wasn't entirely able to walk straight, so she leaned into him every few steps, both of them stumbling each time it happened. Sometimes she'd veer off course and have to grab his arm to keep from walking into something. She didn't mind, though — she kind of liked walking with him, and the moon was so beautiful, sitting giant and round among its bed of stars, turning the muddy road into liquid silver and making her skin glow like it never could in candlelight. She felt lovely. The evening was lovely. The captain was lovely. Everything was lovely, lovely, lovely.

They didn't talk; Catherine wasn't sure if she could string two words together at that point, and Jack seemed to be enjoying walking around in silence. But after a while the delight began to wear off. "So," he said, "where am I to drop you off?"

Catherine saw a building several houses away from hers. It wasn't _abandoned, _so to speak. The family who'd lived there had just moved out, and no one had bought it yet. Her mind, sluggish and a little crazy from drinking, made the decision for her, one that her sober brain would never have considered. "Here's fine," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the house.

He looked over at it. There were boards on the windows. "You sure this is where you live?"

"It's a fine place to spend the night, is it not?" She took his hand — needing him to keep her from losing her balance — and staggered up to the door. It was unlocked, to her relief, and with a glance around to make sure no one was watching, she pulled him inside.

It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust. When they did, Jack looked around. "Love," he said, "have you been plundered?"

Catherine could see his point — it was completely empty of everything except dust. "No," she replied, lifting her chin. "I think it's rather nice." She stepped closer, audacity having spawned from drunkenness. "You're not supposed to wear hats indoors," she reminded him. "S'not proper." He took it off, about to set it carefully on the ground (he always treated his hat like it was an expensive white dress, instead of the old leather rag it was), but she plucked it out of his hand and placed it on her own head.

His eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair, they rose so high. "I believe you're contradicting your own rule."

"_You_ cannot," she replied. "But women are allowed to." They were both speaking in very low voices; there was something a little creepy about the building, and perhaps they both felt the precariousness of their situation, and were afraid of speaking too loudly or they'd break the spell.

"Oh?" he asked. "Why?"

"I . . . do not know." Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to think of a plausible explanation. "Because I enjoy wearing this hat," she eventually declared, triumphant and a little dizzy.

He laughed, shaking his head and nearly falling over at the movement. Snatching his arm to steady him, she was surprised at how it felt: warm and lanky and firm under her fingers. "S'all right," he said, regaining his balance. "I got it." She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly realized that she had no idea what she would say, and after a few seconds of her brain drunkenly computing — calculating her inhibitions divided by desire, with risk utterly subtracted from the equation — she lunged forward and threw her arms around his neck. Though she nearly pulled them both to the ground with the embrace, she was undaunted as she pressed her lips against his earlobe, leaving a messy lipstick smear on his skin and earring (which might have _looked _like gold, but tasted more like copper or nickel).

When Catherine pulled back, she saw that Jack's mouth was hanging open in mute surprise, and his wide eyes met her own dark ones. Then his lips spread into a wide grin and he snickered. Bright red, Catherine tried to pull her arms away as his amusement turned into full-blown laughter. "Well, _excuse me_, I was simply —"

"Enough, Miss Catherine." His laughter dying down, he took her by the upper arms, leaning forward and studying her intently. "Do you wish to kiss me?" he asked, as serious as though he hadn't had a drop of ale. She swallowed, then nodded. "Even though I am a fearsome pirate?" Another nod, and he shrugged, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile. "Then I suppose I ought to comply, hmm?" Despite his drunkenness, he managed to catch her lips on the first try, holding them for a moment — he seemed to know that she'd never done this before, though perhaps that was obvious — before his tongue trailed along her lower lip. She gasped and started to pull away, but he murmured, "You're all right, darling," and she allowed him to enter her mouth, shocked that _she, _the ugly daughter of the Blackwells, was doing something she'd only ever read about in penny romances. Pulling back, he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing slightly ragged. "You know, _I_ have a rule of etiquette too."

She blinked. "Really? _You_?"

Jack continued as though she hadn't spoken. "If men are not allowed to wear hats indoors, then women are allowed to wear only them."

"Beg pardon?" Either she was too drunk or that hadn't made sense.

"If you would like to wear the hat, you cannot wear anything else," he clarified, and stepped away, crossing his arms and watching her with that near-constant amused expression.

She ran a thumb along her lower lip, inspecting with some interest the dark red film it left on her thumb and either ignoring or unaware that her mouth was a mess. "So, hypothetically, I could take the hat off and still be proper?"

He nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. "I suppose."

She sighed, glancing at the entrance to the house and running the fingers of one hand along the hat's brim. "That is a _very_ crude remark," she said, unbuttoning her dress.

He raised one eyebrow, watching as she let the dress fall to her feet and tugged her hair out of its tight bun. "And yet, it seems to have worked."

"That is because I am exceptionally drunk." Catherine dropped her hands to her sides, pushing the rest of her underclothes down with them. "But that does not mean that you cannot act like a gentleman."

"My sincerest apologies," he replied, tilting her chin up so that he could kiss her again, his other hand pressing against the warm skin of her back. "I'll make up for it, I promise."

* * *

Catherine woke up lying on the floor of the empty house, her dress thrown over her like a blanket. Sitting up, she sneezed at the dust and pulled the dress around her, the evening returning to her in a series of images that blurred at the edges. "Jack?" she whispered, feeling her head throb at both the sound and the sunlight streaming in razor-thin lines through the boards on the windows.

"Here, love." The voice made her start, which only increased her discomfort. Pressing one hand to her skull, she turned slowly, trying to keep her keep the pounding in her skull to a minimum. The captain was sitting behind her, fully clothed, pulling on a boot.

"Where are you going?" she mumbled, gingerly climbing to her feet and stepping into her clothes.

"Tortuga," he replied, grinning at her. "I will soon be captaining my own boat. _Ship_."

"Oh. Right." Suddenly aware of how she must appear, she looked down, running a hand along her mouth and trying to flatten the rat's nest that was her hair. "O-of course."

His smile became tinged with pity, and he stood to meet her. "It's okay," he said, reaching forward and stroking Catherine's cheek with the back of his fingers.

She shook her head, trying to focus her scrambled, hungover thoughts. "Is it truly?" she asked. "I mean, is there any way I could . . . or you could . . . ?"

He didn't answer either her finished question or the ones left hanging; he just knelt down and picked up his tatty old coat, pulling it over his shoulders like a cape. "I have to go," he said, glancing out at the sky glimpsed through a hole in one of the boards. "It is getting late. Now, have you seen my hat?" When she discovered it hanging on a nail, he placed it on his head with the utmost care.

"Good luck, Captain," she said, not knowing what a more suitable farewell would be.

He smiled at her, the tan skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she hadn't noticed in the dim light of the previous evening. "You too . . . I don't think you gave me your name."

She had, but the amount of liquor consumed had been quite remarkable, and she felt no qualms about repeating it for him. "Blackwell," she added hastily, realizing he might want to look her up again next time he was in the area.

"Goodbye, Catherine. I shall never forget you." He kissed her again. "I'll see you again, someday." With that, he turned and disappeared into the bright morning, and the last thing she saw before the door swung shut on him was his silhouette, his hand raised against the sunlight.

The comparative darkness returned with the closing of the door, and she sat down on the floor, resting her head on her knees. She couldn't leave so soon after a man, anyway, and her head was too clouded with thoughts and emotions and the hangover to do much of anything. When she felt like the room had stopped spinning, she climbed to her feet, stepping into her shoes and out the door.

Catherine was going to have hell to pay when she got home. The only question was: Had it been worth it?

She thought of Jack, his strangely knowing smile, his stupid hat.

Yes. It had.


	3. Old Faces

Catherine hated makeup. Its sticky pastes, the stiff coat it left on her face, the way she couldn't eat, stand in the rain, or even smile too brightly without it being ruined. Yet she liked the way that she looked like a stranger in it.

She made one last dab and deemed her new face perfect, then went downstairs, stepping carefully to avoid tripping on her skirt. It was one of the few she owned, so she had to treat it carefully. Felicia was washing dishes when Catherine came down, and she looked a little surprised at the sight of her older sister. "Wow," she said, smiling. "You look nearly pretty." Catherine couldn't be too angry at her baby sister's thoughtlessness, considering it was Felicia's lies which had kept her from suffering disgrace that night she spent out with Jack Sparrow, after she'd helped her bookish older sibling sneak back into their room that morning. She'd been scandalized to hear the story — "You gave yourself to a _pirate_?" — but she had steadfastly insisted that Catherine had returned home with her and not stirred from the house since.

Their mother entered the room in time to hear this remark and beamed at her daughter. "Felicia, that is so sweet," she cooed, smoothing her golden hair before turning to the elder daughter. "Dear, would you go down to the blacksmith's? They have something for your father." She nodded and accepted the money her mother handed her, just about to leave when another comment stopped her. "Oh, and Catherine?"

She turned. "Yes?" she asked, raising her eyebrows just high enough to keep from cracking her new face.

Her mother wrung her hands, looking deeply uncomfortable, and said, "Make sure you . . . speak with the blacksmith's son. He's a fine young man, you know."

"I know," she replied, knowing what her mother was saying: he was a _single _young man, one of the few her age. As she was fast nearing thirty, Catherine was an old maid, and her mother was beside herself with worry that she'd never get married. Felicia was betrothed — had been engaged for five years now, as the farmer she'd fallen in love with needed quite a bit of time to raise enough money for a wedding. And every year that passed made her mother more anxious for both her daughters.

The problem was that Catherine didn't _want_ to get married. At least, not to the blacksmith's son.

She wound her way down the road, passing fields that turned into houses that would soon thicken into the town proper. Before she could reach that, however, she had to take a detour.

When she reached the hill that overlooked the ocean, her eyes were immediately drawn toward the docks, and she clutched at her skirt to keep it still in the sea-scented wind, hoping. There! — a large ship, one that didn't belong to any of the fishers or whalers in Kimbal. Her heart leapt, and she searched for one familiar face. It was impossible, of course; she couldn't see any more than small figures moving around the docks, let alone anyone's faces. Besides, what were the odds that he'd come to Kimbal, anyway? There was nothing there for him.

Except her. A smile spread across her face at that thought.

_I'll see you again, someday._ Those were his exact words, known only by her (and by Felicia when she'd repeated the story, but her little sister couldn't understand Catherine's infatuation with the pirate). Surely that was a promise, one that meant he'd come back for her, take her away to explore the seven seas by his side. She would like that, and she thought she could be a good pirate. She was rather strong from carrying wet laundry and heavy tools around all day, and she'd learned to hold her liquor. She never got ill, so there wouldn't be any danger of seasickness. They could sail from port to port, and while he haggled deals and offered goods — and perhaps swindled, but what was it to her? — she could scour the towns, gathering a library that would float along with her, books from all over the world. . . .

It would be difficult. But it'd be worth it if she could spend every day with him, go off into the corners of the universe and see what was there. She could do it.

Catherine was almost at the blacksmith's — it had taken some time, since she kept stopping to look around for pirates — when she saw him. He was leaning against the door to the tavern, chatting amiably to the pretty former barmaid. It was a lost cause, if romance was his intention; she was married and madly in love, and only in that tavern to visit her brother and mother (their father having died three years previous). He could receive neither alcohol nor harlotry from her.

_Try not to be so suspicious, _she scolded herself. _For all you know, he is asking for the address of Catherine Blackwell at this very moment._

He finished his conversation and loped off down the street — in the direction of her house, she realized. She hurried after him, stumbling over her skirt and overwhelmed with delight and hope. "Jack Sparrow!" she shouted, waving furiously.

She heard him sigh as he turned around, muttering "It's _Captain _Jack Sparrow." His expression changed to one of puzzlement as he saw her, tilting his hat back so he could better see her face. "Do I know you?"

Catherine's smile slipped off her face, feeling like her stomach had dropped into her toes.

_I'll never forget you._

"I'm Catherine. Catherine Blackwell? We . . . met the last time you visited."

His forehead furrowed, and he stroked his beard absentmindedly. "I remember drinking," he said, more to himself than to her. "And . . . a girl." He looked her up and down with mild surprise. "You're the girl?"

"Yes." Her mind was working frantically, analyzing her memories and comparing them to the reality, frantically searching for justification. _So he does not remember my name — he is a pirate — he must hear a lot of names — just because he did not remember my face does not mean he does not think about me — it has been a long time — my face must have changed — now that he knows —_

"Funny," he said. "I thought she was blonde." He shrugged, then looked down at her. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Flustered, she looked down at her hands. "Y-yes," she stammered. "I was just thinking . . . since you have returned. . . ."

His eyes narrowed, his expression wary, like he was expecting her to slap him or start screaming. "Ah." He shook his head, exhaling loudly. "Well, I'm sorry . . . Miss —"

_I'll never forget you._ He couldn't even remember her name, and she'd just given it to him.

"— but my first and only love is the sea." He waited a few awkward seconds, then tipped his hat and her and continued down the street with a hasty "Morning." Catherine didn't move or try to stop him; she was focusing all her energy on standing upright and breathing normally, and keeping her face a blank mask so as not to alarm the townspeople who were watching her with interest.

She'd waited _so long_, let years and men pass her by, waiting for this moment. She went to sleep every night imagining his face and believing his words. _You deserved this, you know, _she thought, as though in a fog. _You trusted a pirate. Even Felicia knew that was foolish._

It made sense, of course, had Catherine given even a moment of thought to it; the bar had been mostly full of strange men, an uncomfortable situation at the best of times. She had been clearly alone and unhappy about it, making her a perfect for a man with a tongue as silver as his. She was pretty enough, but not so lovely that he would have to fight a man for her attention. Obviously tipsy and new at it, and once she'd unleashed her bitterness over Felicia's beauty, he had known exactly how to make her feel special and beautiful.

He'd wanted an easy fling, and he had gotten it. She couldn't fault him for his gains, no matter how ill-gotten they might be; he _was _a pirate, after all, and she, who had always prided herself on being so clever, had fallen for a trick she would have rolled her eyes at if she'd read it in a novel.

Catherine was heartbroken, of course, but sadness wasn't the strongest emotion she felt, but confusion at what her next move should be. She'd spent so much time waiting that she didn't know what to do now that all her waiting was over. Should she get married? Or sit at home and hope he would change his mind? Should she run after him and beg him to remember his promise? Should she take a hatchet to his skull? _What _could she do to recover herself from total annihilation?

She looked down the street in the direction he had gone in, and saw that he'd stopped again to talk to another girl. This one was single, not to mention blonde and lovely. She seemed smitten with Jack, staring up at him with adoration and curling a ringlet of gold around one finger. Was that how Catherine had looked? Was that what she'd become? A silly, simpering, pathetic little creature, waiting for nothing but a pirate's word? Disgust twisted her stomach, and her lip curled.

In her entire life, she had never hated herself as much as she did in that moment, watching a younger version preen and coo at the treacherous handsomeness of the captain. She felt her eyes prickle and squeezed them shut. Despite her efforts two tears escaped, and she swiped at them with her fingers before they could smudge her new face and reveal her shame. Once she felt in control of herself, she looked down at the little teardrops glistening against her light brown fingertips.

Two tears and ten years she'd wasted on him. Perhaps her mother had been right, and all her reading had plunged her too deep into daydreams and fantasies. Or perhaps there were some fantasies too dashing to resist.

She wiped her hands on her skirt, letting the water soak into the fabric. There was no point in crying. What were two drops of saltwater compared to the entire ocean?

"Miss Blackwell?" She turned around to see Andrew, the barmaid's elder brother, looking out at her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, swallowing back the urge to start crying again. "I-I am fine. Thank you, Mr. Grady."

He held open the door. "Would you like to come in for a drink?" When he saw her hesitation, he smiled tentatively and added, "I shall not charge you."

Catherine looked over at the blacksmith's shop. She was supposed to pick up that tool for her father. . . . "I fail to see why not."

She stepped inside and took a seat at the bar, noticing him watching her as he busied himself with the glasses and taps. She'd had a sneaking suspicion that Andrew had liked her ever since he'd broken things off with Felicia's friend that night so long ago. She had tried to avoid him, as his gentle attention distracted her from thoughts of life on the sea with her pirate, but it was difficult to; the town was so tiny and crawling with meddling parents desperate to fix up their children before their fertile years were past.

He set a drink down in front of her. "Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked, filling another glass. There was a delicate shyness to his every movement, a grace born of timidity that reminded her oddly of a deer. In many ways she felt that she was more masculine than he, and she suspected that this was part of why they were both unmarried and approaching their third decade.

She shook her head, gesturing to the stool next to her. "By all means."

He sat down next to her. "Who was that man you were talking to?" he asked, too polite and good-natured to let any hint of jealousy creep into his voice. He knew that he had no claim to her, though he might desire one, and the question, while not exactly casual, was born of concern for her rather than himself. "You seemed very urgent."

Of course Andrew would notice that; it was his perceptiveness and ability to deal with all types of people that resulted in the success of his tavern. Catherine looked out the window, where Jack had his arm around the blonde girl's shoulders and was leading her down the street. "That is _Captain_ Jack Sparrow," she told him. Ignoring his confused look, she raised her glass to his. "He is a scoundrel who cheated me out of a very valuable possession."

He tapped his drink against hers, and then drained half of it in one gulp. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, then," he said. "I cannot imagine anyone less worthy of being mistreated." For a moment they stared at one another, each trying to read the other's expression. Flustered at something he saw in her face, he set his glass down and pushed his stool back. "I have to clean up a bit," he told her, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He picked up a rag and began cleaning off the bar (which looked spotless to her, but she wasn't one to deny him a distraction), chatting with her about idle things while he did so.

Deliberately removing the Jack-tinted blinders that she had held over her eyes for the past ten years, she observed his delicate features and his expressive green eyes, his shaggy brown hair and the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Andrew Grady lacked the mystery or charm of Jack, but he was sincere, with an open face and a kind smile. She leaned back in her chair, watching him. He looked up at her and grinned, blushing slightly.

Catherine lifted her tankard to Jack, who had disappeared from sight. "Goodbye, Jack Sparrow," she whispered, raising the ale to her lips. "May the sea treat you well."

"Hmm?" Andrew glanced up from where he was wiping down one of the tables. "Did you say something, Miss Blackwell?"

"Nothing important." She took another long draught. "Just a moment," she said, lifting a hand and disappearing to the restroom. Once inside, she looked in the mirror at the nearly-pretty girl standing there.

With the makeup, her nose didn't look so large, or her eyes so small, and the red lip color made her mouth look less wide. Somehow her face didn't even seem as square, either. She didn't look like herself.

She gripped the sides of the washbasin, glaring at the mirror girl and watching little cracks run across her new face. _You are me, _she thought. But she wasn't. This mirror-girl was the one who'd been pining over Jack, who had refused to see anything or anyone besides her beloved pirate, who had ignored the pleasant, book-loving, attractive young man who desired her hand and her companionship. This mirror-girl, who could not even express emotion without her new face being damaged, had taken over her life and ruined it. Catherine pulled out a handkerchief and wet it, then scrubbed at herself, washing all the new face off, scouring until her skin hurt.

She lowered the handkerchief and stared at this new mirror-woman — not a girl anymore. Her face was pink from the washing, and there wasn't a spot of makeup on her face.

This woman wasn't beautiful, but she wasn't ugly, either, Catherine realized. Her eyes had a hint of a sparkle in them that hadn't been there before, and when she smiled it didn't matter how wide her mouth was. She stood straighter, too — her shoulders weren't as hunched, and her head was held just a little higher. Her expression had a womanly quality, an adult clarity that came from abandoning her daydream and stepping into the real world.

She grinned at her small eyes and her large nose and saw perfection. "_You_ are me," she told the mirror-woman, who beamed back as though relieved to finally be free and loved.

Catherine put her handkerchief away and went outside, where Andrew had refilled her tankard. She took it gratefully, sipping it and enjoying the rich taste.

When she got home, she would throw her makeup away, or maybe give it to Felicia — as long as it was out of her sight, she'd be happy.

She hated the stuff.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, but I don't think Jack is the most commitment-minded gentleman, so those happily-ever-after married stories used to bother me so much. I'm not saying that this version is any better, but there's some decent writing here and I thought I'd throw it up anyway. Please let me know what you think — good and bad!


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